


Lazy Braids

by diemarysues



Series: Marriage in the Manner of Dwarves [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Borrowed Character, M/M, Masturbation, Prompt Fill, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>suchanadorer asked for Thorin's POV of the hair-braiding chapter. Somehow it morphed into wanking.</p>
<p>Ah well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Braids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suchanadorer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/gifts).



> Unbetaed. Shorter than I wanted.

Having his hair braided by Bilbo had been a mistake in so many ways.

 

It had been harrowing to have those small hands so close to his face and neck – because although they were delicate and soft and belonged to the most gentle being he’d ever met, he had also seen them wielding swords most viciously. It was rather unfair to even consider that the Hobbit he was courting was even capable of killing someone in cold blood, but Thorin was a King. He’d spent decades and decades ever vigilant against assassins.

 

He’d found that it was better to focus on other things. The light tugging on his hair while Bilbo had been braiding let loose a curl of pleasure inside him, but it was surpassed by applying his attention to the concentration on his partner’s face.

 

Bilbo had had his brow furrowed enough that the tiniest of lines was visible between his eyebrows. All Thorin had wanted to do was rise from his seat and kiss it. But then he might be tempted to catch the tip of Bilbo’s tongue that peeked so invitingly from between his lips. That would almost certainly deepen the flush scattered across plump cheeks.

 

Thorin rather liked the thought that he was the cause of that blush.

 

Then Bilbo had used _those_ beads, the beads of his family members dead and alive.

 

He’d had no doubt that it had been his sister’s doing – she could never resist meddling when she wasn’t wanted. Having the beads in his hair made Thorin hold his head higher than usual. The fact that Bilbo had put them there filled his heart with helpless pride.

 

They had had a feast commemorating the winter solstice, and it’d pleased Thorin to no end that Bilbo had been seated beside him. It was a tantalising glimpse into their possible future – in which Bilbo would be beside him in _all_ senses of the word.

 

“I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

 

Bilbo smiled up at him, eyes bright and cheeks ruddy. “I did, thank you!” He looked to be slightly tipsy, and leaned against Thorin’s side. The King took the opportunity to slip his arm around the burglar’s shoulders. To steady him, of course. “The ale today was very nice.”

 

“Did you need that much?”

 

The reply was pert. “To stand your company, obviously.”

 

Thorin chuckled. He squeezed Bilbo close. “I see your tongue is still sharp.”

 

“It’s not hard when talking with you, Thorin,” he retorted. “Silly Dwarf.”

 

“Yes, Bilbo.” Apparently the ale had also loosened the Hobbit’s tongue. It was most amusing, even if Bilbo didn’t usually hold his opinions in Thorin’s presence anyway.

 

They were standing on the same balcony that they’d danced on two months ago. It was bathed in moonlight and starlight, and Thorin could swear that Bilbo almost glowed as he smiled up at the sky. If he didn’t know that Dwalin was lurking in the shadows, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do.

 

Nothing Bilbo would object to, surely.

 

Bilbo rested his cheek against Thorin, and that simple action made his heart swell. It was impossible to properly articulate exactly how deeply he felt for Bilbo, but this moment possibly came the closest. Just their physical closeness and the easy way the conversation shot back and forth, as well as the clear happiness between them.

 

“Do you think it was alright for us to leave so early?”

 

Thorin couldn’t help but smile at the clear worry in his voice. “There are some advantages to being King, I think.”

 

“ _You’re_ King. I am not.”

 

“I am King, and your suitor. We basically have the same standing in society.”

 

Now the worry manifested itself as a frown that downturned the corners of Bilbo’s mouth. “That… was something I was unaware of.”

 

“Really? It would have been in the book Dís gave you.”

 

“That is not a particularly straightforward text,” Bilbo said primly. “Excuse me my ignorance.”

 

“You needn’t worry, Bilbo. No one is about to come to you for advice on ruling.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he could feel Bilbo relax against him.

 

“I’m absolutely awash with relief.”

 

“Would you like to come back to my quarters?” Thorin asked, and ignored the surprised cough that came from Dwalin. Perhaps he could have timed the question better, but as he’d already asked it, there was no point wallowing in regret.

 

Bilbo blinked up at him, hazel eyes wide. (Thorin could see the stars beautifully reflected in their depths.) “Your quarters?”

 

“Indeed. I’d appreciate your help with taking down my braids.”

 

Bilbo soft lips – and he knew from experience that they were sinfully soft – formed an ‘o’ as his cheeks grew even more red. Thorin didn’t have to think very hard about what had crossed his mind to make him look so mortified. “I… I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It’s not as if you have to return the beads and clasps to me, Thorin. You weren’t planning on that, were you?”

 

Thorin blinked. “I, I hadn’t considered it.”

 

“It’d be rather impossible to put them in my own hair.” He fingered the ends of his curls which were admittedly longer than usual. “They look better in yours, I should think.”

 

He felt his insides glow at the praise. Thorin had never been quite certain how to take compliments in all his years, and although he was still at something of a loss, receiving them from Bilbo never failed to make him ridiculously… happy.

 

In fact, Bilbo never failed to make him ridiculously happy, full stop.

 

Despite the Hobbit’s insistence otherwise, though, they had not left the feast early. It was therefore sooner rather than later that they had to part ways – with Dwalin scowling in the background – and Thorin found himself quite bereft afterwards.

 

“You’re sulking,” his cousin said, with no small amount of relish.

 

“I’m not sulking.”

 

“Mmhmm.” Dwalin leaned back against the balustrade, grin entirely too smug for Thorin’s liking. “That’s why your face is as dark as a thundercloud.”

 

Thorin turned to glare. “For your information –”

 

“Watch out, your pout almost had me eye out.”

 

“I only wish I could gouge your eyes out.” He bared his teeth. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, lech?”

 

“Why? Need to be alone to wank?”

 

The crude joke jolted a bark of laughter from Thorin. “In which case this is the place you’ll want to be, I’m sure.”

 

“Giving yourself too much credit, I see. As usual.” Dwalin flicked some dirt off his jerkin. “I didn’t think the burglar would ever end up having this much of an effect on you.”

 

“You didn’t think the burglar would ever end up being of use.” At the look directed at him, Thorin obligingly muttered, “And neither did I.”

 

It was amazing how such an ordinary-seeming Hobbit had actually been so very extraordinary. He had been uncomfortable and out of his element for most of their ‘adventure’, true enough, but he’d shown his shrewdness and his resourcefulness and his quick-wittedness.

 

He truly was a gem in the rough, his Bilbo, strong and unassumingly beautiful – and only needing the right set of circumstances to show how brightly he shone.

 

Dwalin wryly shook his head. “Absolutely smitten.”

 

* * *

 

Thorin didn’t dally much longer on the balcony; he didn’t fancy spending the rest of the evening being teased by his closest friend. The jokes tended to become annoyingly repetitive.

 

His quarters seemed emptier and quieter than usual. It took Thorin a long moment to realise that he was waiting for snappy comments and a head (and feet) full of curls by the fire. He scowled as he curled his fingers over the back of the armchair.

 

Dwalin had been right. He was smitten.

 

Luckily enough, Thorin then caught sight of the cedar box on the seat of the armchair. Bilbo must have left it behind.

 

The grooves cut into the lid caught the firelight as Thorin picked it up, and his chest seized for a moment. He recognised the box from his childhood – from early mornings spent on his mother’s lap, peering interestedly at everything on her dresser.

 

He breathed.

 

So. Not only had his sneaky sister passed their family’s beads and clasps through Bilbo, she’d managed to give him this reminder of their mother, out of the few keepsakes they had left.

 

Frís had been a force of nature, strong and stout, and always with a smile on her face. She made it clear that she did not play favourites amongst her children (although the same could not be said for their father, who loved Frerin the most, and their grandfather, who doted on Dís), and it was from her knee that Thorin learned the harp.

 

She had perished in dragonfire, when Erebor had been lost.

 

Thorin could still remember sharing breakfast with her that morning. She’d been lost in thought, as was usual, wearing blue topazes and chains in her yellow hair. Frerin had been nattering about something or other, mouth going a thousand miles a minute as Dís glared at him suspiciously from her perch in Thráin’s lap.

 

When Thorin was excused from the table, Frís had stopped him with a gentle hand over his.

 

“ _Amad_?” he’d asked.

 

Her smile had crinkled the corners of her eyes. “I trust you’ll not be interrupting your sibling’s lessons today.”

 

He’d tried not to flush. Someone must have tattled on him. “No, _Amad_.”

 

“Good. Come kiss your mother.” Frís had lifted her chin so he could brush his lips over her whiskery cheek. “And Thorin?”

 

“Yes?”

 

She’d had an odd, faraway look on her face. “Take care of Frerin and Dís. For me.”

 

At the time, he’d merely thought that Frís was being pointedly motherly. Now Thorin couldn’t help but wonder if she’d somehow known that the day would bring a dragon on its wing.

 

In the present, Thorin closed his suddenly damp eyes.

 

He took a moment to collect himself before carefully placing the box on his own dresser. It used to hold uncut gems from his parents’ courtship, and now would hold the hair beads and clasps of his family.

 

Thorin removed them from his hair slowly, placing each reverently into place. First Frerin’s then Dís’, then his nephews’, and then finally those of his father and grandfather. Replacing the lid seemed to slot something into place deep in his heart, and Thorin found that he could breathe more easily.

 

To postpone any more moments of simultaneously painful and wonderful memories, the Dwarfking quickly went about his nightly ablutions. After washing his body and hair and mouth, he took the time to look through his correspondence, separating the pile of letters into ones he had to reply to personally, and ones he could force onto one of Balin’s secretaries.

 

It was well past midnight when Thorin settled back into his chair with a sigh. He took a moment to bring out his pipe – he did deserve the break, after all, having ignored the impulse to shirk his duties on a feast day – and quietly puffed on it in the silence of his quarters.

 

As it was wont to do, his mind turned to thoughts of a certain Hobbit – was Bilbo already abed? Or was he still awake, puttering about the room in that endearing manner of his? Could he be reading in bed, or also smoking? Could he –

 

Thorin inhaled sharply as the thought streaked through his mind.

 

He hadn’t been blind to the reaction Bilbo had had when faced with him half-dressed. His burglar had had cheeks as red as carnelians, and had made sure to be thorough when he swept his gaze down Thorin’s body. Bilbo really had splendid self control, as that had been the extent of his reaction. Even so, Thorin couldn’t help but wonder if he would let that self control slip, now that he was alone in his room.

 

Mouth dry, Thorin hurriedly emptied the bowl of his pipe and set it aside. He now wanted to go to his own bed quite keenly.

 

He doused the lights, leaving the fireplaces and one candle burning merrily. It was not a particularly cold night, but seeing as he had no plans to keep his clothing on his body, the extra warmth would be welcome.

 

Thorin glanced mournfully at the bottle of oil on his bed stand; it had seen much use recently. Be that as it may, he knew that he’d be on his feet for much of tomorrow, and using it in the way he _wanted_ would be unwise. Instead he threw off his clothes, sighing in satisfaction at the feel of the cool sheets against his skin.

 

He started by running his hands up and down his chest. Of course he was already familiar with the dips and inclines of his own body, but now Thorin closed his eyes and tried to imagine that his fingers were smaller and more slender. He tried to recall the weight of Bilbo’s body atop his, from when they’d duelled with swords, and tried to think what his partner’s expression would be should they make love.

 

Surely Bilbo would blush.

 

It was a good look on him, that splash of pink-red across his cheeks. But underneath that shyness, there would be daring and – dare he say it – enjoyment. Bilbo was not afraid to say what he wanted, and Thorin rather thought that that would translate into bedroom activities. He’d noted Bilbo’s interested gaze taking in his chest – as much as the Hobbit walking in while he’d been getting ready had been an accident – so there was no doubt he’d have those small hands buried in his chest hair.

 

Thorin drew two lines up his body, on either side of his navel all the way to his collarbone, and then back down to tease his nipples into stiff peaks. Would Bilbo enjoy trailing his fingers through the soft curls over Thorin’s chest? Or would he find the sensation too strange?

 

He hoped that Bilbo would like it. He certainly took pleasure in way it felt, rubbing in light circles before softly scraping his nails down his sides. Ah. Ah, yes.

 

Hopefully his (ample) chest hair wouldn’t dissuade Bilbo from tasting. Thorin moaned a little as he thought about it, letting the back of his head sink further into his pillow. That clever, pink tongue darting out of Bilbo’s mouth and laving over his skin; if only it wasn’t merely happening in his mind.

 

His mind-Bilbo now smiled impiously before moving down his body and taking him in hand.

 

Thorin echoed this action; but where he only needed one hand, Bilbo would doubtless need two. His free hand lazily roamed over his skin, sparks of pleasure drifting through him. He would have to teach Bilbo how he liked to be touched; how he liked a firm grip, how he liked to play with the head, how he occasionally dipped lower to cradle his bollocks.

 

He released himself for a moment, rolling over so he could filch the oil and dribble some over his fingers. There was no patience to warm it; he stroked his fingers all over his length, slathering the slick everywhere.

 

These slippery fingers, Thorin would – hopefully – someday slide _into_ Bilbo, opening his husband-to-be. He bit his lip, trying to imagine Bilbo’s expression if he were to prepare himself, hovering over Thorin’s body, before lowering himself onto Thorin’s cock.

 

Durin’s beard, that was entirely and tantalisingly unfair an image.

 

Thorin bent his knees so his heels were just brushing his arse. It would give him better leverage to push against the bed (and into Bilbo), and the breath of cool air against exposed skin made him sigh. To be in such a position would also allow Bilbo to lean back against his thighs.

 

Such a picture called to mind thoughts of lazy, lazy lovemaking – but he steered clear from that path today, quickening the pace of his stroking. His groans punctuated the silence of the room, and he pretended that they were joined with Bilbo’s.

 

Oh, how he _wanted_ to wring sounds from his partner. Would Bilbo be loud or quiet, would he shout or would he sigh? Would he beg? Would he squeal? Would he bite his lip and let only the tiniest of squeaks slip past, or would he shamelessly moan while he squirmed on the sheets?

 

He cursed from between clenched teeth. His imagination was running rampant and had supplied him with images that were sure to torment him for long after tonight; Thorin could almost hear Bilbo crying out in need. He pumped his hand even faster.

 

His heels slipped a little against the sheets as he thrust his hips in counter with his hand. He could hardly wait for it to be Bilbo’s slim fingers tight around him – and then his mind was caught up with thoughts of those fingers being put to other use.

 

Wouldn’t it be lovely, though, to have Bilbo’s fingers in his hair as they moved together on the bed? Thorin drew his lower lip between his teeth, sucking softly as he recalled the gentle tugs against his scalp. His mind provided that feeling, coupling it with the vision of Bilbo, glorious Bilbo, putting lazy braids into Thorin’s hair as he rocked in his lap.

 

That was _perfect_.

 

He’d hold onto Bilbo’s pudgy hips, massaging the flesh according to Bilbo’s gasped breaths. They’d slide against each other with the sweat on their bodies, slippery and smooth and sensual. Possibly Thorin would lose patience – like he was losing patience now – and would flip them over.

 

Bilbo would be beautiful, flushed against the sheets, and Thorin would hold him down. He’d relentlessly drive into the body beneath him, still on his mission to eke out all the sounds he could from Bilbo’s throat.

 

When he finally had Bilbo in his bed, the Hobbit would not know any other words but ‘ _more_ ’ and ‘ _Thorin_ ’.

 

“Oh, Bilbo,” the King groaned, now using both hands on himself. He could feel the mattress bouncing slightly with the motion of his thrusting, which was growing faster and faster.

 

Was Bilbo doing this same act in his bed? Was he thinking of Thorin as he pleasured himself?

 

Thorin arched with a cry, the wet of his seed settling over his hand and belly. It took him a long moment to catch his breath and settle his vision; even so, Thorin let himself laze in post-orgasmic haze, boneless and languid.

 

Soon, he thought, breathing softly. Soon he and Bilbo would have each other.

 

And then they would _have_ each other.

**Author's Note:**

> The Lady Frís is borrowed - with permission - from determamfidd, who's written the hideously excellent [Sansûkh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/855528/chapters/1637607). I recommend it heartily, and would like to thank her again for letting me use her character.


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